


The Trial of Jaskier

by DadHowling (Pugach_na_cherdake)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Aphrodisiacs, Awkward Romance, Crossdressing, Fantasy, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:07:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24997339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pugach_na_cherdake/pseuds/DadHowling
Summary: Jaskier wants to visit the feast, where the most worthy of the noble will gather to ask for the hand of Princess of Cintra. However, the bard is unwilling to meet the jealous husbands of his many ladies, so he invents a plan.(Alternative cutscene from the fourth episode of The Netflix's 'The Witcher'.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Kudos: 33





	The Trial of Jaskier

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Испытание Лютиком](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/640804) by Пугач на чердаке. 



Geralt was soaking in a huge tub and scrubbed his skin violently. Although the shelka’s blood he’d bathed in wasn’t actually poisonous, smiths would often use it for metal etching. The thing wasn’t dangerous for a witcher but on his way to the inn Geralt nearly lost his mind ‘cause of unbearable itch underneath his armor. And then he expected rest. Just to get his earn and honest coins, brush up and have a good nap on a bench bedded with a holey bag of straw. Alas, instead of dwelling on his usual grump thoughts and sipping some washy wine, he’d got to listen to Jaskier’s everlasting chatter.  
‘…and he said he’d seen everything with his own eyes! It gobbled up the witcher, he swore! The jaws clapped – and there it went, away he passed, m’lord witcher on the bottom of the lake in the stomach of the beast.  
… but I say: no, sir. Never he did! There would your eyes be on your own bottom! The glorious Geralt of Rivia couldn’t have died! Of course, unequal battle against the gluttonous monster which years and years tormented all the poor peasants…’  
Geralt wondered if this magpie could ever shut the heck up. Even in the night time warm by the campfire sleeping, thank-you-very-much, Jaskier kept bloody mumbling. How could women, whom he dearly loved and discussed all the time, stand that? How could people do? Geralt would be a different matter, having passed all the exhausting witcher training, the trial of herbs and transmutations. But how about the rest?!  
‘…so we come together. You owe me a service, my gloomy friend, and I insist on your instant payback.’  
The bast touched the fresh wound on the shoulder and Geralt hissed through his teeth.  
Bitch, the fucking fiend nicked him indeed! Alright, the fangs hurt him slightly, which meant that his sudden intoxication death wasn’t the thing to worry about. He only had to remember where he’d last seen any hellebore and make sure he had enough honeysuckle to brew White Honey.  
‘…so we are going there not incognito, but like the guests of honour. Can you kind of hear me, Geralt?’  
‘Fuck you, Jaskier! I can’t even hear my own thoughts behind the diarrhea of your mouth!’  
Hurt and silent, bard sat down by, resting his chin on the edge of the tub. He was looking at the witcher with the eyes of a beaten dog left for dead, or, in fact, for ghouls’ dinner in a moonless night. Geralt was not going to be sorry – the most of human feelings were unfamiliar to a cold monster killer, soulless extermination machine and so on and so forth…still:  
\- Just tell me again what you want.  
Jaskier cheered up in a moment and, having forgotten the former umbrage, tweeted mellisonantly.  
‘Her Majesty Queen Calanthe is holding a feast on the occasion of Princess Pavette’s matchmaking. And the castle will be a damn cream of the society bucket: from the neighbouring kingdom dukes to those Skellige backwater lairds. Geralt, I must join in! We’ll see whatever you like: fights, court backroom-deals, and which is most important – rivers of Cintrian ale! I can’t possibly miss the event!’  
‘Go then.’  
‘The problem is, my inattentive friend, that I can’t. I know most of the guests personally. Not them in particular, their charming wives, ladies and even mothers. I remember one venerable matron, amiable baronet’s mum…’  
‘Oh, Dagon dash you, spare me the details!’  
‘Yeah, well, doesn’t matter. So, I’m afraid, the moment after I show up in my glory, I will be frustratingly dead. And that’s not the thing I’ll be delighted with.’  
‘The others will.’  
Bard sprung to his feet and slapped Geralt’s face with a towel. Or at least made a nice try. The witcher dodged and roared with laughter, triumphally watching the bristled up singer losing his powerful gift of speech to anger and now gesticulating away vehemently.  
‘Alright, lord of bedtime romps. What do you want? Me standing by and making a heavy look the entire feast?’  
‘No, no, no. Nothing of the kind. That would be no fun then. Also Skellige guys are going to break a stabbing party one way or another, and I’m not the man to fall dead by a drunken jarl’s knife this night, you know. But I have a great idea. The glorious one, Nilfgaard’s best strategians-worthy!’  
‘I’m listening.’  
‘First, through some very important people benevolent to me, I reasoned with a herald.’  
‘Oh, come on! Are you such a big wig, Jaskier of Nowheresville?’  
The singer assumed a dignified air as if the duchess Anariette had just knighted him personally.  
‘You know little about me, Geralt of Rivia. Keep listening. You will be announced as a noble master Ravix of Fourhorn.’  
‘Where the heck is that place?’  
‘Far. Far enough for you to tell any balls you like, just don’t overplay. You the makebate would be out of my plans. By the way, I’ve found you some presentable apparel.’  
Geralt struggled a desire to dive and stay underwater for couple hours until Jaskier would make sure he drowned to death and go find another good fellow for noble-wine dinners.  
‘Stop agonizing, it’s just a camisole!’  
‘Perfect. I am a highbred peer from anal end of nowhere beyond the northern border of Temeria, and who are you?’  
Jaskier went tantalizingly silent. A growing unease sent shivers down Geralt’s spine, and staring at the playful glint in bard’s eyes, he realized that wasn’t going to end well.

* * *

Aneshka had always been a hard-working and righteous girl. She dutifully got up at the crack of dawn, busied herself about the house, made sure all the inn guests felt snug, their tankards were full of good sip, and their bowls steamed with delish soup. Aneshka prayed to goddess to send her a kind husband, and whilst the higher forces were seeking for her perfect match, the girl broke no squares with her father’s good will. Even today when dad sent her upstairs to bring sirs some hot water, she obeyed, although the idea of entering the room of two men curled her toes. The more so, that tall one was a yellow-eyed brute with long swords behind his back.  
Holding a basinful of water tightly, the girl came up to the door and was about to push it nimbly with a hip, when she heard tense moaning and a piteous holler.  
‘Geralt! It hurts!’  
‘Stick it, bard, you asked for this.’  
‘I can’t… Blooming heck, I can’t! Stop it!’  
‘Are you playing the woman?!’ Deep roar sounded like the beast’s one. ‘Shut up. I’m almost done.’  
‘A-ah! Stop! Geralt, oh-please…’ the holler sank in quiet sobbing.  
Aneshka staggered back from the door almost spilling the water. Her face burned as if she stood by the Beltane bonfire. She had to go. Get the damn out of there and forget that moaning, heating a young maiden’s imagination.  
If you asked anyone in the village they would swear Aneshka to personate honesty and virtue, but few people knew how awfully curious she was. Right enough to carefully put the basin down and slightly open the door just to half-eye peep at the crying shame happening.  
Bard was standing, leaning his elbows on the wall, and bending back like a randy whore. Witcher’s knee was bearing against his tailbone as rough hands were fastening the corset lace.  
‘Holy martyrs, how could women survive that?’ Bard whispered hoarsely. ‘I’m afraid I’ve forgotten how to breathe.’  
‘With the breast, Jaskier. C’mon, air your boobs.’  
‘None I have, you know!’  
‘No matter, I’ve brought you some tit pillows, so we can craft them.’  
‘Next time I suggest such an adventure, can I ask you for a service of hitting me in the back of a neck and dropping my dead body into a well? Please, relieve my misery, oh glorious Geralt of Rivia!’  
‘I catch you in a word. And yet you suffer.’  
Aneshka wouldn’t watch it anymore. She backed away hoping the witcher couldn’t sense her.  
Enough! Next time father attends his mad visitors personally, but she never crosses the thresholds of the up-stair rooms!

* * *

Jaskier didn’t lie: the ale was perfect. Geralt finished some fourth or fifth tankard, truly regretting that witcher’s metabolism couldn’t let him get fairly drunk. He had always hated all the gentlefolk gatherings, all the empty talks, growing into angry political strives, which led to offensive voices and obvious duels. Boring-as-fuck. Kaer Morhen boozy sessions were a horse of a different colour. Witchers swizzled up with pure alcohol and could cut the shit out of wyvern’s nest for a dare. Just to pick the eggs and foist them into Vesemir’s bed. The heroic deed worthy the brave School of the Wolf’s apprentices.  
While Geralt was propping himself up against the wall, pretending to be a piece of furniture, his reverend goodwife Julianne, nee Jaskier, was sweet-talking to a young count. The man paid courts and compliments and kept inviting her (him) to drink wine, having absolutely forgotten about master Ravix of Fourhorn’s existence. Geralt even wondered if the count got Jakier hammered, and if yes, how loud would be his yell when underneath the skirt he found a sword instead of a scabbard. The witcher never doubted the youngman was going to get ‘Julianne’ into bed, because what could be another matter to spend time on a lady when everyone rose goblets and salacious songs sounded louder than the introductions of future Cintrian princes?! The guests from Skellige thumped with the tankards and roared ‘Hey-ah!’ at the beginning of each verse, revoicing the ugly high notes. To tell the truth, it was the first time witcher regretted that Jaskier appeared as a beautiful lady, not a bard, for the singers at the feast had not only their ears tin but their throats too. And so they sang as terrible as they played. The ballad of girls from Vicovaro performed by drunk-as-fuck Lambert seemed much better than this godawful animal cacophony.  
As witcher felt sorry about the ruined musical background, Jaskier changed few gallants and was having a conversation with baron Arve, when suddenly his energetic speech aborted. Geralt narrowed his eyes, watching the bard tug his high collar as if he gasped for air. The sharp intake of breath sank in table-clatter.  
Something went wrong. Shit! How can anything possibly go right when a jerkoff poet suggests a dumb-ass plan which looks more like the ravings of an idiot than anything sensible?!  
Geralt walked around a long table, nimbly evaded Crach an Craite and made two more quick steps to approach Jaskier. The one looked shaky: he breathed heavily, blushed whether of the wine taken or of the fever, and his eyes expressed fear. Or rather panic growing into insanity.  
‘M’lord, I guess your wife is feeling unwell…’  
‘I guess my wife is hammered as hell. Nevermind, baron. In spite of her delicate face, my darling drinks as a mountain troll.’  
Jakier cast a vicious look and opened his mouth in the effort of protest, but was suddenly overcome by a painful spasm. The singer bowed a bit down, nestled his hands into the groin and…  
Oh, fuck!  
Conceiving that it must be easier to explain their sudden disappearance than a skirt decorated with semen, Geralt grabbed the bard’s elbow and dragged him away of the hall.  
Having stolen him out through the courtyard witcher led him into a stable, growled at the horse-boy and, after the last one left in terror, barred the door.  
‘He empoisoned me,’ Jaskier whispered girlishly, holding on to a wooden slat. ‘This knave… Oh, fuck! Geralt, I’m gonna die right now!’  
‘No one died of it,’ he grumbled back and cursed himself for having left not only his swords but also a bag of herbs back in the inn room. So what should he do? Wait until Jaskier wanked off in plenty? And how should they clean the white spotting off the crimson dress? And besides, his charming consort Julianne had just gratefully run through the castle with an awesome boner under the skirts. If they were noticed, they were doomed to hang and dance upon nothing by the next sunset. Cintrians would never like that kind of jokes.  
‘Geralt, please,’ whimpered the poet. ‘oh, please…’  
‘Damn you, Jaskier! What the fuck am I supposed to do?!’  
Jaskier didn’t answer. He demonstratively turned his back on and lifted the skirt.  
Geralt was a bit fucking shocked.  
Well, through the years of travels in the peculiar poet’s company he got used to his eccentric social manner, to sophisticated speech, to constant whining about the absence of beds and duvets by the campfire, to obscene verses changing the deep philosophic poems… In short, from Jaskier he expected everything. But not this, damn it!  
The singer was resting against the stall wall and swaying his hips seductively, like a puss in a March estrus. The blond wig of Julianne the girl was cast off under his feet.  
Geralt watched the obscenity with all his eyes: the nifty legs tightened in the silk stockings, the whitish pantaloons with delicate frillings, and a rim of the corset emerging from under the beltline of the dress.  
He had better to go. Defiantly turn and get the fuck back to the feast, leaving the bard to deal with all unfortunate consequences of his bright ideas. But to his shame Geralt realized that both he and his bulging fly piece unwished to go.  
Jaskier was graceful. His wild and a wee bit sweaty hair, his red plush slutty lips, and his airy long fingers created to treat his beloved lute so kindly… These drove Geralt out of the senses. But the most bemusing thing was the scent: semen and rosemary with a citric hint. Witcher’s smelling turned him into a beast that nosed out a rutting bitch. If Geralt was a shade more unhinged, he would assault the lecher and take him again and again up to the dawn, until his sweet voice turned into a choking rale.  
Jaskier shed a strange sound: something between a moan and a wail; and witcher decided that it wasn’t the right time for settling down in the meaning-of-life thoughts. Why should he hold back if someone was inviting him so lecherously, so desperately, as if that was the last day before the White Frost’s triumph? Oh well, this time the poet asked for a trouble himself! However, Geralt wouldn’t like a bloody carnage upon this charming bottom, and so he had to improvise.  
Jaskier had always been a lucky son of a bitch: from beneath the pile of scrubbers and brushes, from under the dusty old horse-cover Geralt procured a little cup of squirrel grease. And by the time he finished dashing about the stable in search of anything oily, the singer had also finished right into his pantaloons and now was gasping for air as much as the corset lacing let him do so.  
The air became saturated with perversity and lust. For the first time in years and years of uncountable empty nights smothered by the street-girls’ hugs, Geralt felt such a fierce desire, such a bright one, to the pain in his groin, as if again he was a horny adolescent within the cold walls of Kaer Morhen  
He moved closer to Jaskier, leaned forward and clenched teeth on his shoulder, making his shout twang. Quickly and suddenly he pulled down the snow-white pantaloons, dipped out some grease from a cup and fingered the willing body. Jaskier sighed a faint whiner and moved his hips back and forth.  
How much time did he resist? Couple of minutes, perhaps, or maybe a whole eon. Did the witcher’s self control last long, before Geralt, having unlaced his pants, broke into the fascinating heat and began beating into his lover boldly, extorting raspy breath out of the throat?  
The corset lace ripped and Jaskier finally screamed. Bending within a hold of steady hands he shouted so loud that he might be heard in a great hall.  
Geralt rushed his thighs forward and finally poured into his mate. Jaskier echoed his pleasure without even touching his excited flesh: hot semen sprayed on the stall wall.  
Poet went silent for a few seconds and then whispered:  
‘Shall we do it one more time, witcher?’  
After the sixth time Jaskier finally sobered down. Panting like two blown horses, exhausted and wet, smeared with sperm and grease they were lying in the hay, calling one another names.  
‘No, I really wonder where the count’s jerk had rustled up such a strong aphrodisiac. To tell the truth it seems like succubus secretion.’  
‘I don’t give a fuck where he’d got it! This son of a whore empoisoned me with that junk and then abandoned, aiming at another girl!’ Jaskier swung his arms decorated with bites and bruises. ‘Just think about it! He traded me for some… ahr! He hasn’t got long to live!’  
‘Are you going to poison him?’  
‘Worse. I’ll write a ballad about him. I’ll sing it in every tavern. Of a count’s little son, and his poor tiny dick, unable to amuse anyone but a titmouse!’  
‘That’s too much.’  
‘Yea, you’re probably right. The bird is no way guilty.’  
Soft voice faded away and it seemed that the tired poet had fallen asleep at last. Still, the blissful silence was soon broken as he tumbled on Geralt’s shoulder and whispered in confidence:  
‘I’ll write a ballad about you, too. Something epic. The verse can’t occure in my mind yet, but the refrain… ‘Toss a coin to your witcher a valley o-plenty, a valley o-plenty!’’  
‘Don’t you dare. Honest to all gods, I swear, if you compose this ditty and you’re fucked and dead and buried.’  
And a rolling sweet laughter chimed about the stables. 


End file.
